Peacocks and Saviours
by kyarajack
Summary: "He was alive, not in Ozorne's dungeons, and in very close proximity to some very unexpected company. Rana, no last name: Player and prostitute." My imagination filling some of the gap between Tempests and Slaughter and Wild Magic. An exercise in character creation, done in snippets.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: In honour of Tempests and Slaughter coming out, I decided to try my first Tortallan fanfic. We haven't gotten to Arram's escape from Carthak, so my imagination decided to fill in the gap. Until Tamora fills it herself, of course! I consider this to be an exercise in character creation, so it's done in snippets as opposed to a full-blown story. Enjoy my ramblings.

* * *

Peacocks and Saviours

* * *

Arram was so unbelievably tired. In his days studying at the imperial university, he had spent many a sleepless night. Often, he had been too absorbed in his reading to notice that the sun and set and risen again. Other times, he had been doggedly determined to locate a particular fact or complete a translation for Master Lindhall. But this time, the exhaustion that had set into his bones wasn't caused by lack of sleep. In fact, he had been sleeping for longer each passing day, but all the sleep in the world couldn't prevent the onset of starvation. The young man guessed that he hadn't eaten for three to four weeks, judging by the severity of his symptoms. For the first week, he had been able to count the days. But, as his lack of food continued, he tired more easily and his frequent naps made all the days run together. Truth be told, he had thought he would last longer than six weeks as a wanted man. For the past three days, he had lain in the shadows of an alley between two modest houses, too tired to move. Their eaves kept him shaded from the blazing sun and mostly hidden from those passing by on the road. Certain that no one would save a starving man half-hidden in shadow, Arram waited for the Black God to fetch him. The mage heard movement at the end of the alley. A few moment later, there was a hand resting lightly on his upper lip, feeling for breath.

"Still alive," a female voice murmured. The hands gently hoisted him up from under the armpits, shifting him to sit against one of the houses. They brushed his matted hair away from his face. "Can you open your eyes?" she asked softly.

Perhaps he was starting to become delirious. The simple question had sounded melodic, rising and falling ever so slightly as if it were part of a whispered song. Gathering his will, he forced his eyelids open. Two pools of dark emerald green were inches from his face, a pair of eyes that held a mixture of concern and curiosity in their depths. His throat was too parched to form words, so he simply watched as she examined him.

The young woman's eyebrows pulled together in a frown as she squinted her eyes slightly. She vanished from view for a moment and returned with a sheet of parchment in her hand.

Arram glimpsed it briefly as she brought it up beside his grimy face: his wanted poster. He closed his eyes in resignation. He had been found. Not even a black robe mage could escape the clutches of His Imperial Majesty. _Great Goddess have mercy_, he thought to the heavens. Perhaps she could convince Ozorne to make his death swift.

* * *

Arram came to with a sharp intake of breath. Listening, he realized he had been moved. There were no two-legger noises and he could hear the sound of running water nearby. The mage was lying on something much softer than a dirt alley. He was wrapped snugly in a bedroll, even though it was too short for his six-foot-five frame and only came halfway up his chest. There was movement nearby, and he found himself propped up into a sitting position against another warm body. A water skin was held to his lips.

"Drink. Slowly," the voice of the green-eyed woman said from behind him.

He did so without a second thought, feeling warm, sweetened water relieve some of the dryness in his throat and the hunger in his belly. It was all gone before he had had his fill and he was laid down on the bedroll again.

"No more or you'll just be sick," she said from somewhere above him." The melodic quality of her voice was pleasant to listen to. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you later."

True to her word, she woke him for another helping of sweetened water, which he drank greedily. He continued to drink and rest with no clue how much time had passed. Soon enough, he was upgraded to a thin, coconut-flavoured soup. As she woke him for his third helping of soup, he managed to open his eyes without too much difficulty. "Who are you?" he croaked.

She was his age, possibly older than his seventeen years. Her pale blonde hair was straight, framing her face as she looked down at his prone form. Her skin was swarthy like his, but a few shades darker. Her nose, downturned at the tip, had been broken once, but the healer she had seen was good enough to leave only a small bump behind. Dark lips, shapely though a bit thin, led to a rounded chin and straight jawline. Her emerald eyes, set beneath softly arched brows, examined him carefully. "Your saviour," she answered shortly.

"I had deduced that much for myself. I was rather hoping for a name," the young man clarified.

She grinned mischievously at him. "I did the saving. You first."

He realized he had not imagined the song-like lilt of her voice. Everything she said was said with the whisper of a song.

"Arram Draper," he answered without thinking, intrigued by her way of speech.

The woman stared at him, dumbfounded.

His heart began to race. Had he just given his identity away? _There is no way she did not already know_, he thought frantically, _she had my wanted poster_. At that point, he realized she didn't look scared of harbouring a fugitive, and her dumbfounded expression held an edge of condescension rather than surprise.

"I can't believe you just said that," she said flatly, clearly unimpressed.

"From that, I surmise you already knew who I was," he retorted sharply. Her current smarter-than-thou attitude reminded him of some of his fellow classmates, who would dance around explanations so they could prolong their moment of superiority. "Asking questions you already know the answer to just makes you look the fool."

The woman shook her head. "I was pretty sure I knew who you were, but I didn't _know_ until you gave your name."

"You held my wanted poster up next to me. It was not obvious enough then?"

She sighed heavily as if she had to explain something to him for the third time. "No. You were about to die of hunger, covered in dirt and sand, and you hadn't washed or shaved in weeks. You looked like the ghost of the man on the poster. If you hadn't given your real name, you could have made me believe you were someone else and been on your merry way."

Arram frowned, his irritation at her attitude driven from his mind. "Speaking of which, why am I not in Ozorne's custody yet? Were you waiting for identity confirmation before alerting His Imperial Majesty?"

The simple act of conversation was draining what little strength he had, and he was already taking long pauses between sentences to catch his breath.

The blonde noticed his fatigue and propped him up against herself, feeding him soup from a small iron pot as she answered, "No. Whether or not you were really Arram Draper, I wasn't going to tell the Emperor. He would order me killed the moment he was me."

He raised his eyebrows. "What did you do to incur his wrath?" he asked between sips.

"Do you remember the peacock that he bought? To celebrate the coming of spring?"

"Of course. He practically shouted its arrival from every street corner, the way he boasted about it every time he opened his mouth. Then of course, some uncouth harlot killed it a month later."

She snorted. "Is that what he's calling me now?"

He was so stunned he nearly choked on his soup. If he had had the strength to spin around and stare at her, he would have. "_You_ killed his peacock?"

"It was barely enough to count as revenge, but it was the best I could do," she sighed. His meal finished, she set the small pot aside. "Welcome to your new home, Arram." The green-eyed woman remained behind him, propping him up so that he could look around.

He was in a tiny tent, made to house one. It was a simple structure, a few long, sturdy poles supporting tan oiled canvas that would keep both bright sun and pouring rain away. The bedroll on which he reclined had been set up on the diagonal, the only dimension that would allow a man as tall as himself to lie down in such a tiny space. By his feet, one of the door flaps was tied open, allowing the noon sun inside. To his right, he saw a large pack in the corner. It sat, deflated and empty, with its contents lying in a heap on the canvas floor. He saw mostly clothes, in rich greens, blues, oranges, and reds, made of all different kinds of fabric. Some had tiny brass disks hanging from their hems, to catch the light as the wearer moved. There were veils in the pile too, their materials ranging from cheap muslin to fine silk and light-as-air chiffon. Beside the clothes lay a Player's tools: six juggling balls, six wooden rods, and a deck of cards. He also spotted the water skin he had drunk from previously, and a few things for washing and bathing. A glazed pot was rather out of place, well-worn but closed, contents unknown. On his left were various dry foods: beans, lentils, rice, and small jars of simple spices. The edge of an aish flatbread stuck out the top of an oil cloth bag, and a single piece of salted fish hung from the pole that formed the ceiling of the tent. Next to the food was- "My pack!" he exclaimed, trying to reach for it, forgetting his frailty. His arm shifted half-heartedly in response to his brain's commands.

The woman laid him down gently and fetched the dirty bag. She tucked it in the crook of his arm, without him needing to ask. "I found three books and a robe in it. Was anything else supposed to be in there?"

"No," he answered, relieved. His books were safe. Plus, he wasn't in Ozorne's hands. He was luckier than he could have hoped. _Thank you, Merciful Mother,_ he thought. With his mind at ease, he fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke next, his pack was still snug under his arm, and he desperately needed to relieve himself. Arram opened his mouth to call the emerald-eyed woman but stopped himself. "I still don't know your name," he said, finding he had the strength to look around a little.

The woman put aside her mending and got to her feet. "No, but there are other matters that need taking care of at the moment, aren't there?" With some difficulty, she arranged his lanky frame on her back and carried him outside, the same way a parent carried a tired toddler home at the end of the day.

Being borne on her back, he saw she was taller than he had realized. She stood somewhere near five-foot-ten, unusually tall, especially so for a woman. He wondered briefly whether she, also a person of unusual height, suffered mundane issues similar to his. The mage's thoughts moved on to the quiet strength her willowy body possessed. She was only slowed slightly by his weight and was barely breathing heavily despite the distance they had travelled.

"Can you stand?" she asked, stopping before a latrine.

Arram flushed red with embarrassment, realizing what was about to happen. He had the independence of a baby at the moment and he was going to be cleaned like one after he finished his business. "I think so," he muttered. He would rather try to stand and fail than admit defeat right away. She set him down, allowing him to lean against her. He was grateful that his legs held. Deftly, she helped him with what needed doing, with his face crimson the whole while.

Catching sight of this, she snorted. "Nothing I haven't seen before, Master Draper," she said lightly. "Who do you think was cleaning you up while you slept?"

He was too embarrassed to reply, not speaking again until he was safely clothed once more. "Could I stay outside for a while?"

"Sure," came the reply. When they reached the tent, she deposited him in front of the door flaps, leaving him propped up by the centre pole. "At least until the bugs come out."

The sun indicated that it was early evening. To the east, Arram saw the silhouette of Thak City. Between the city and their camping spot, he saw a smattering of tents. The further from the city, the fewer the tents and theirs was the furthest by a large margin. A branch of the Zekoi river meandered to the south, much narrower and slower moving than its portion in the capital. Their tent door faced north, away from the pounded dirt road that faded into the west, towards the nearest town. The rest of the landscape was nothing but dry, sandy dirt.

"We're about a two hour walk from the city," she told him as he took in his surroundings. "Water comes from the river, and I have some food stores. When we run low, I'll go get more."

"That is all well and good, but I still don't know your name."

She sat gracefully in front of him, blonde locks settling on her statuesque shoulders. "Oasis."

He looked at her skeptically. He'd never once met someone with a noun for a name. Whose parents were foolish enough to do that?

The woman laughed at the look. "Or Mirage. Haven't used that one for a while. Whatever works."

"I was not asking for a stage name," he said sourly, understanding.

She put her hands on the ground behind her, leaning back and surveying him. "What does it matter? What's in a name? It could be a stage name or a real name, but as long as I answer to it, it does what it needs to."

"You saved my life. I would like to call you by our real name," he said softly. "We are both fugitives. Neither of us is going to turn the other in." _I hope_, he added silently.

She smiled and shrugged, as if it didn't matter to her, but she would give a real name if he wanted one so badly. "Rana," she said finally.

"Rana," he repeated, feeling the syllables on his tongue. It wasn't a name he had heard before. "Last name?" he asked, examining her features, trying to pinpoint her origins. Rana wasn't a Carthaki name. The blonde hair said Scanran for certain, but her swarthiness said the opposite.

She shook her head. "Players don't keep their last names. We choose our family. No point in keeping the name of the old one."

"Nice to meet you, Rana." Arram inclined his head towards her, the closest he could come to bowing at the moment. "Thank you for saving my life. I am grateful beyond measure and indebted to you."

A smile spread across her face. "You're welcome. I hope you'll repay your debt in full. Eventually." Rana waved a hand, brushing away the topic. "Forget that for now. You need a new name."

"What?" he frowned.

She shook her head at his naiveté. "I can hardly go around calling you Arram Draper, can I? We'd both be dead in a hurry. So, you need a new name."

"Other names don't suit me," he mumbled. He remembered his fruitless attempts to come up with a mage name. Everything he thought of sounded utterly ridiculous. "I have tried."

She leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand. She bit her bottom lip pensively, studying him with her dark green gaze. "It'll be 'Numair' then. It means panther," she supplied.

He laughed. "An uncoordinated klutz like me, assuming the name of a graceful animal like that?"

"You don't have to be anything like your name," she pointed out, "you just have to like how it sounds." She shrugged. "I'm calling you Numair until you come up with something you like better."

With a pang, he thought of Varice who was just as willful, just as commanding, but caring all the same. Rana interrupted his thoughts.

"It's time to get inside anyway, before the bugs make a meal of us." She collected him and brought him inside, laying him on the bedroll once more and tying the door flap shut. She fed him another helping of coconut soup for dinner.

"What language is 'Numair' from?" he asked after downing the last of the soup. He had rooted through all the foreign languages he was familiar with, both ancient and modern, and come up with nothing.

"Sirajit."

Ozorne's deep-seated hatred for the Sirajit meant he and Varice had both given the subject of Siraj a wide berth, including Arram avoiding learning the language. He blinked, making the connection. "You are Sirajit?" Arram had never seen anyone but a Scanran with blonde hair.

Her eyes turned hard and her body tensed. "Is that a problem," she said darkly. More statement than question.

"N-no," he stammered quickly. He'd never shared or understood Ozorne's prejudices. Clearly, Rana was no stranger to the Carthakis' general animosity towards her people. "I am just surprised that your hair is blonde. I thought that was a Scanran trait."

Rana studied him for a moment longer, then relaxed, her body settling into an easy position once more. "Ignore the hair, then you'll see it."

He watched as she picked up her mending from earlier and bent over the task, intent on finishing before the daylight filtering through the tent canvas faded completely. He studied her face as she worked. Her skin, darker than his, spoke of a birthplace father to the south, where he knew Siraj to be. The downturned tip of her nose was known as a southerner trait, as were her dark lips. Rana's emerald eyes breathed truth into an entry he had once read in a travelling bard's journal while researching the relationship between opals and magic: the Sirajit all had gemstone eyes. Vibrant irises of all colours, ranging from pale icy grey that evoked diamonds to the deep black of opals that brought Siraj its fame.

Rana looked up. "See it yet?" she smiled.

Arram quickly looked away. _It is rude to stare_, he chided himself. Never mind the fact that her smile was oddly captivating. "I can see some traits that support your claim," he said hurriedly as he regained his composure.

"You don't have to speak like a scholar anymore," she teased. "It would be best if you didn't. You'll stand out too much among all us common folk." She knotted the thread and cut it with her teeth, mending done.

"I was told I needed to sound more scholarly by my own father," he snorted, recalling one of his family's rare visits to Carthak. "What was the point of paying exorbitant amounts of tuition if you could not tell from my mannerisms that I attended the most prestigious university between the Copper Isles and the Roof of the World?"

Rana stared at him blankly. "That's exactly the kind of talk that'll get you killed. And I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"The answer to your question."

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "It does not matter, it was rhetorical."

She dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her temples. "That's got to be the fiftieth word out of your mouth that I don't understand," she groaned.

"That many?" He was stunned. She had been keeping up with the conversation remarkably well for missing the meaning of so many words.

"Alright, maybe more like twenty-five. Either way, a fair few," she huffed, glaring at him like it was his fault.

He supposed, in a way, it was. She was a common Player. It was highly unlikely she would understand all of his extensive vocabulary, which made even nobles twist their faces in confusion at times. "Which words?" the young man asked, genuinely curious.

"Rheti-whatsit," she answered, still rubbing one of her temples.

"Rhetorical," he supplied, "in the previous case, referring to a rhetorical question. A question asked to make a statement rather than to elicit information."

Her emerald eyes were even more confused than before. "Eli-what now?"

"Elicit. To..." he paused. His word of choice would have been 'evoke', but he got the feeling that she might need the definition of 'evoke' as well. "To _draw out_ a response from someone in reaction to one's own actions. For example, say I wanted to know how and why you killed Ozorne's peacock. I could... say it was cruel to kill an innocent bird and see if you would... accidentally tell me your reasons while trying to defend yourself." He had paused to choose simpler phrases than 'condemn the slaughter of menagerie treasures' and 'inadvertently reveal your motives'. Breaking this habit was going to be more difficult than he thought.

She nodded slowly, seeming to understand. "So, a rhetorical question is a question you don't really want the answer to," Rana ventured, putting his two definitions together.

"Yes."

The blonde threw her hands up in the air. "Then why didn't you just _say_ that?" she cried, exasperated.

"I was trying to," Arram said weakly. "Wait a minute. Ozorne is after you because you killed his peacock. You should be using a name other than Rana."

"He doesn't know me as Rana."

"Of course!" he realized. She had given him three different names in a heartbeat. She probably had more. "You gave him a stage name."

Rana tilted her head slightly. "Well, we never actually met." she said vaguely.

"What other words did you not understand?" he asked eagerly, the academic in him always happy to educate another. He learned quickly that Rana had a remarkably good memory for what had been said. She only had to think for a moment to recall words she hadn't understood, beginning their impromptu vocabulary lesson with prestigious, mannerism, tuition, and exorbitant. Arram chose his definitions carefully, using only simple terms. Even so, when she rephrased his explanations to be sure of her understanding, she still made him sound convoluted in comparison.

Half an hour later, the young woman said, "That's it."

He raised an eyebrow. "You said there were twenty-five words you did not understand. That was only ten, including rhetorical and elicit."

She shrugged. "I didn't count."

"The first estimate you gave was fifty!" The gathering darkness of twilight was hiding the annoyance on his face, but his voice betrayed him. "Fifty is a far cry from ten."

"Players aren't the type to do things exactly," she said lightly, apparently unfazed by his irritation towards her.

"What about 'uncouth harlot'?" he tried. That wasn't a common phrase.

Rana snorted as she lay down beside him." No, I know what that means. I hear it sometimes as a bed warmer. Can't say they're wrong, I suppose." She sounded amused.

He was once again glad for the darkness hiding the dark flush on his cheeks. She was incredibly brazen compared to the company he used to keep. Her disregard for personal space and unabashed disclosure of her second profession had caught him off guard.

She saved him from having to reply, saying "Goodnight, Numair," and rolling onto her side to fall asleep.

As the sounds of the desert's nocturnal creatures came to life around him, Arram mulled over his current situation. He was alive, not in Ozorne's dungeons, and in very close proximity to some very unexpected company. Rana, no last name: Player and prostitute.


	2. Chapter 2

Rana was already up, as usual. Through the open door flap, Arram could see her tending a fire outside, mixing together ingredients in her small iron pot. She seemed to sense he was watching her and turned around not long after.

"Morning," she smiled, leaving the fireside and ducking back into the tent.

"Good morning," he replied.

"Come outside. You've been healing well."

Arram nodded, eager to leave the confines of the tiny tent, this time without being carried. Though his head and neck seemed to be in working order, it was a different situation for the rest of his body. When he tried to sit up, his abdominals trembled violently and were incapable of levering him up. He groaned, frustrated with his own weakness. The past few days, he had been doing nothing but drinking coconut soup and sleeping, and during his latest piggy back to the latrine, he thought his legs had felt stronger.

"Try rolling onto your stomach and pushing onto your hands and knees," Rana suggested, seeing his frustration.

He tried her suggestion and succeeded, though shakily. Pushing his weight onto his heels, he managed to heave himself into a seated position. The simple act of sitting up left his muscles drained.

She tilted her head to the left and studied him for a moment before saying. "I'll wait for you outside." She returned to the small pot on the fire.

He was determined to get himself to the fireside without help, and she seemed to have read his mind. He was reminded of Ozorne who had frequently been able to accurately guess people's thoughts or intentions. The prince had attributed his ability to his being a 'people person'. Arram had thought to himself that he must be a 'book person' then, since he would much rather spend a day with cracked leather and dusty pages than extravagantly dressed nobles who tittered about nothing while secretly hating each other. Numair hauled himself outside and plopped down across from her, exhausted. He saw that the pot contained more coconut soup and pulled a face. "I don't mind coconut, but one does tire of the repetition after a while."

Rana shrugged. "I don't have much else that makes a good soup, and I haven't gone into the city since I brought you here."

"How long ago was that?" Arram had completely lost his sense of time.

"Nine days." She stirred the soup once more and, satisfied with its consistency, took it off the fire. She threw some dirt on the fire to put it out and rose to fetch something from the tent.

Arram eyed her ease of movement with envy. He had never noticed how much energy it took to move one's limbs until now. Did being graceful like Rana take more energy than simply moving? He'd probably never find out. He had been clumsy since childhood.

She returned with an aish in her hand. Seeing his hopeful expression, she nodded and tore off a piece of the flatbread. "Here you go. Not coconut soup."

"Come on, that is hardly anything!" he protested. The portion she had given him fit neatly in his palm, the amount he would expect a toddler to receive with dinner.

She shook her head firmly. "Eat too much, too soon, and you'll get sick."

He sighed. He knew she was right. Many convents had taken in starving women and children, only to have half of them fall ill and die after their first plentiful meal in weeks. Healers could sometimes save the ill, but they still didn't fully understand the cause of the feeding sickness. Arram resigned himself to his small piece of aish, tearing it into smaller chunks so he could savour the feeling of chewing his food.

Unlike him, Rana was done her breakfast in a flash. "If you think you'll be alright for a few hours, I'll make a trip into Thak City."

"I will be fine on my own."

She fetched a small pack from the tent and set off for the city in the distance. "Stay inside the tent, and no eating until I get back, Numair!" she called over her shoulder.

It took him a few moments to remember that _he_ was 'Numair'.

* * *

Arram's morning passed quickly. As instructed, he stayed inside, poring over one of the three books he had taken with him. It was a collection of intermediate and advanced combat magic. He couldn't put any of it into practice, for fear that Ozorne would detect his Gift and drag him back to the dungeons, but if he studied the book cover to cover, then he would stand a better chance against the battle mages the emperor had at his disposal. At the university, he had never focused on combat magic. Everything else was so much more _interesting_ than blasting holes or throwing fire. Some of his friends had vastly outranked him in combat ability, but Arram had always been able to keep pace by drawing on raw power. Rana returned as he was visualizing one of the spells, saying the words but keeping his hands still and his weakened Gift tightly locked up.

"What _are_ you doing?" she demanded, setting down her pack.

Arram opened his eyes. "Visualizing a combat spell."

"Visi-huh?"

"Visualizing. It is a mental exercise. You imagine yourself doing something so when you have to do it, you are more likely to do it correctly. I have been visualizing every spell in this book."

She shook her head. "Seems to me, the best way to get better at something is to do it, not pretend to do it."

"Well I cannot do the spell or there would be a huge crater in the ground and His Imperial Majesty would be out here in less than an hour," he shot back. "Alright, maybe just a moderate crater. My Gift is still rather drained presently."

"When do you think it'll be back?" she asked, pulling bags of food out of her pack and tossing them into the designated food corner, replenishing her stores.

"Whenever my body heals, I would say. It has been returning with my strength. I estimate a month or two would be sufficient."

"Well then." Rana turned towards him, a dagger in her hand that she had drawn from seemingly nowhere.

Arram tried to scramble backward, but his haste and weakness combined only caused him to lose his balance and land flat on his back. The combat magic book went flying and he winced internally when it hit the ground. He hated damaging books. His mind snapped back to the more imminent problem before him. He called his Gift and a small tendril of it rose within him. He was running the risk of some spell of Ozorne's picking up on his location, but that wouldn't be a concern if Rana slit his throat.

"Oh, stop that," Rana said calmly, a gentle smile coming to her lips.

Arram's gaze was glued to her face. Her smile was so soft. Rana's emerald eyes seemed to glow with disarming kindness. The very air around her looked like it had taken on the colour of her eyes. The deep green of meadows of lush grass, the colour of thriving trees, of life. He would be safe with her. The fire surrounding his large hand winked out.

"I only have to cut your hair," she explained, gesturing with the point of the blade, indicating that he should go outside. "You can't look like Arram Draper if we're going to hang around Carthak for a month or two."

The young man righted himself but didn't leave the tent. "You are Gifted," he realized.

"Yes," she said brusquely. "Now, come on, outside. I don't want your hair all over my floor." Rana stepped into the sunshine, leaving him to follow.

He did, laboriously, asking, "Can you do that again?"

"What, use my Gift?"

"Yes. Please."

She shrugged.

This time, his eyes were drawn to her right hand. His gaze never left the worn wooden hilt and the sharp grey blade. He felt a shiver run down his spine as the simple dagger commanded his focus. It was starting to emanate the same emerald green glow, but this time it reminded him of toxic brews in cauldrons instead of fields of grass. The green faded. "Does your Gift affect feelings?" he asked, puzzled. He was surprised by how differently he had reacted the second time.

"I'll explain after you sit," she said, tapping her foot.

Arram sat in front of her. "Can you try to keep-"

She gathered his matted hair into a horsetail and sliced it off. "No, I'm not keeping it long. Your height is odd enough. The less you look like yourself, the better. Now hold still."

He did, feeling the blade working very close to his scalp.

"As for my Gift," she continued, "it attracts attention. I can draw people's gazes, either to me or a part of me."

"Myself," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It's useful when I perform in crowded places, but I try not to use it too much. Especially in the richer neighbourhoods. Too many mages that could pick up on what I'm doing." When Rana finished with his hair, she went inside the tent and returned with a shard of a mirror. A strip of fabric covered the sharp edges, but she still handed it over carefully.

Arram hardly recognized himself. His long hair was all gone, cropped so close to his head he was sure someone would mistake him for a slave. His haircut wasn't perfectly even, but it was very good for having been done with a dagger. It was strange to feel the breeze on his scalp; he had grown his hair long from the moment he left Tyra. He shifted the shard of the mirror. Some scraggly facial hair had grown on his cheeks and chin. While on the run, he had been unable to take the time to shave. More than his short hair or beard, he was shocked by how skeletal his face looked. His eyes were sunken, staring out from shadowed sockets. His cheeks looked hollow. Looking down at himself, he saw how very thin his arms and legs had become, barely more than twigs with a few cords of muscle lashed on. Peeking underneath his dirty shirt, he was repulsed by the fact that he could count every rib. No wonder his Gift was so depleted.

She grabbed a bar of soap from her bathing items and worked up a lather with some water. Carefully, she shaved off his facial hair. It did not escape him that her hands moved with the ease of long practice.

"You did not mention you are also a barber," Arram commented, checking for cuts in the mirror. There were none.

She waved it off. "I've had this dagger long time." Rana gathered the rest of her bathing items and headed for the river. "I'm going to bathe," she said, changing the subject.

Arram made his slow way back to his book, careful to avoid looking in the direction of the river. His limbs trembled, protesting the labour. It seemed that he had reached the limit for moving today.

The woman interrupted another one of his visualizations when she returned, picking up the book off his lap and setting it aside. He had barely opened his eyes when she picked him up and returned to the river. "Your turn," she declared, blonde hair still dripping. She set him down on the bank and pulled his shirt off.

"I can bathe myself!" he cried indignantly.

"No, you can't. You barely made it back to your precious book just now." She pulled off the rest of his clothes and moved him slightly deeper into the water. "Nothing I haven't seen before, Master Numair," she laughed, catching sight of his beet red face.

* * *

"That's a different one than yesterday," she commented, eyeing his book from across the fire. "Is it also about combat spells?"

"No." He tilted the tome up so she could see the cover. _Lushagui and Her Children: The Banjiku_.

Rana looked over the title, then back at him, one eyebrow arched expectantly, waiting for him to explain why he was reading it.

"Some of my Masters at the university believed in a different kind of magic. It is not the Gift and it has to do with animals, so it was termed wild magic. I had a couple hypotheses that I had proposed to Master Lindhall and he sent me off to confirm them before I rambled at him again."

She rolled her eyes. "You _need_ to stop talking like a scholar. A what-teses?"

"Hypotheses," he repeated, emphasizing the 'h' she had missed. "That's the plural. The singular is a hypothesis. A theory. A guess, really, about what wild magic can do."

"So? What can it do?"

"Wild magic manifests itself as a knack with animals. The Banjiku people are the most well-known example. Their mutual understanding with their animals is so deep, it gives the illusion that the animals speak Common. It appears to only be effective with one species per person, though. Another point I wanted to research was the intelligence of the animals themselves. Exposure and interactions with individuals harbouring wild magic may increase the intelligence of the creature, leading to eerily two-legger-like behaviour including attempting to keep records or grooming for vanity instead of cleanliness. I also wanted to explore the possibility of the gradual modification of two-leggers' features to resemble the species their wild magic connects them to. This last my be entirely due to the Banjiku's ideals of beautly, but the performers I have seen bear an uncanny resemblance–"

"Numair!" Rana shouted, stopping the stream of words tumbling from his mouth.

"What?" he asked, hurt that she had cut him off in the midst of such an intriguing topic. "You are not the slightest bit interested, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. I am. But you have to start over. Slow down, and use words that I can understand, alright?"

Arram sighed. He doubted he would ever be able to banish the scholar inside him. Haltingly, he began anew, watching Rana for glares or eye rolls that indicated he had once again chosen a word outside her vocabulary.

When he finished explaining his hypotheses to her satisfaction, she asked, "And you're going to find the answers to your questions in that book?"

"It is possible. I have been through it once, but not thoroughly. I have to read it again and pay particular attention to the legends and lore. Too often, a generation or two of ancestors gets skipped, or someone is called by three different names." He was expecting a laugh, or at least a smile from her at this last comment, but instead, Rana was frowning.

"You've already read the book?"

"That is what I said."

"And you didn't sell it?" she cried, "You know, for food?"

Arram pulled the book closer to him on his lap. "Books are invaluable. Priceless! Without written records, we would still be relying on legends and campfire stories to keep track of history. We would be suffering from all the inaccuracies and exaggerations that come with oral records. There is a wealth of information stored between the pages of every book, if only we took the time to read them."

She plopped her chin in her hand and narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't read that combat magic book for the first time yesterday either, did you?"

"Yesterday, you were not reading the combat magic book for the first time either, were you?' he corrected.

"What? Is that another one of your rheti-questions?"

He sighed. "No. I was rephrasing your sentence. It could have been better constructed." This earned him yet another eye roll. "I was reading the combat magic book for the fifth time. If Ozorne does find me, I would like to be overprepared."

"What about your third book?"

He shook his head. "I am only a few pages into that one. It is a translation from Ancient Thak that I was working on before my arrest."

Rana's face dropped into her hands. "If it weren't for me, you would've been a dead man with two books he'd already read and a third that you didn't understand," she muttered into her palms. "And they say the university folk are smart."

"Sorry? I did not hear that. Your hands muffled your words."

"Never mind." The woman stood and dusted off her skirt.

"Are you going into Thak City again? I would like some ink and parchment. It would enable me to continue my translation," he said hopefully.

"I'll go tomorrow," she replied. "And you're getting charcoal. Ink is expensive. I have a dance to work on today." She walked a distance away from the fire and began to move to a song that only she could hear. Every once in a while, she would pause, repeat some movements, and change something until it was to her liking.

Arram watched, entranced by her seamless steps, each motion flowing smoothly into the next. She could have been gliding on clouds, he wouldn't have noticed a difference.

* * *

Another few days passed before Arram found that he had the mental capacity to work on his translation. He could devour books in Common no matter how tired he was. But Ancient Thak, the obsolete cousin of Old Thak, wasn't nearly as easy for him to read. His lessons in Old Thak were long ago and the half-remembered words did little to help him understand the ancient form. More often than not, he had to focus and sound out a word. "Wo-go-rah," he muttered, "Wogora. Look." He wrote the word down on the rough parchment Rana had bought him. In all his years at the university, he had never given his dark inks and smooth parchments a second thought. How he missed them now, trying hard to avoid smudging the charcoal already on the page.

"Hm mm hm me wogora..." Rana's humming drifted in softly from the outside. "Pah stargo... No, pah starga key me wogora. That's it."

He stuck his head out of the tent, thinking she was mocking his mutterings. But she was too far away to have heard him. She began to sing soulfully, pairing the slow song with the steps she had choreographed over the past few days.

"په سترګو کې مې وګوره

ته به و وينې ته څه مانا لرې وما ته

زړه دې و لټه

اروه دې و لټه

او ما چې پکې و موندې هلته,بيا به و نه لټوې نور

مه را ته وايه دا هڅه ورته کولو وړ ندی

ته نسي را ته ويل,دا ورته مړېدو وړ ندی

اتره يې رښتيا دي,هر څه کوم ستا لپاره يې کوم"

Arram watched, entranced. Her voice sang a beautiful melody, her body moved as if it was just as possessed by the music as he. She held her final pose for a few moments, then relaxed, sweeping a bow to an invisible audience. He closed his jaw and cleared his throat before he spoke. "You sing in Ancient Thak?" he called to her.

Rana turned and walked back to the tent. "Only that song. I had another Player teach it to me. People like to hear something they don't understand. Feels exotic."

"كيف هي لغتك العربية؟" _How is your Thak?_

".تعلمت العربية قبل أن أتعلم الإنجليزية" _I learned Thak before I learned Common._ ".والداي هما أردو لكنني ولدت مصريًا" _My parents were Sirajit but I was born Carthaki._

"درباره فارسی شما چطور است؟" _What about your Old Thak? _

She snorted. ".بهتر از شما، با یک لهجه مثل آن" _Better than yours, with an accent like that._

"Ancient Thak is not too far from Old Thak," he said, switching back to Common. "Yours is good. Try reading this, you might have an easier time than I am."

The woman looked at the page for a moment, then sighed. "I can't read."

Arram fought his disappointment. "Really, there are similarities. Take 'wogora' here." He indicated the word he had just translated. "The 'wo' syllable is similar to Old Thak, but with an extra tail. See?"

She shook her head. "No, you're not listening. I didn't say I can't read Ancient Thak."

He blinked, making sense of what she had said. "You can't read at all? Not Old Thak? Thak? Common?!"

Rana shook her head for each language he named.

"Sirajit?" he tried.

She threw her hands in the air. "Is it so hard to believe that I can't read? It might not be something you've come across before, Master Scholar, but almost half of the poor can't read."

"But- but then..." he stammered. He couldn't fathom being unable to read. To never read a single book, to never escape into the depths of a story or to never learn what scholars of the past had to say. But even more astounding, the inability to read a street sign or a vendor's prices. "How do you... get by?" he asked, unable to come up with another phrasing.

Rana glared at him. "It's not that hard. Other people who can't read don't write things down. People who can read will read things to you if you ask nicely. You just need to learn a few numbers and make sure you're not getting cheated. Reading isn't something I need to be able to do."

He closed the book and set it aside. Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment from his stack, he wrote a large 'A'. "Sit here," he said, indicating a spot on his left. "We will start with Common."

She turned on her heel and walked back to where she had been dancing. "I don't need to learn to read!"

* * *

Rana sat on the bank of the river and dipped her toes in the cool water. The nighttime sounds of the desert filled her ears as she looked up at the sky. Clouds blocked the light of the stars. "Your kind of night, huh?" she murmured. "I never liked clouds the way you did." Reaching next to her, she uncorked the small bottle of date wine she had purchased earlier that day. "To you," she toasted, in the direction of the river.

As she took her first sip, Arram ducked his head back inside the tent. His trip to the latrine could wait for her private moment to pass.


	3. Chapter 3

"How is your Gift?" Rana asked him over breakfast.

He didn't answer for a moment, caught off guard. She hadn't mentioned his Gift since the day she cut his hair, two months ago. "Fine," he replied. As his health returned, so did his Gift. He was still thin, but his large and consistent meals made sure he was no longer skeletal.

"Good. You're getting us out of here. Tonight," Rana said brusquely.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're a black robe mage. I've heard what you mages can do. Create demons to do your bidding. Turn an army into a forest." She looked at him expectantly. "Disappear from the Copper Isles and appear on the top of the Roof of the World."

Numair held out his hands. "Wait a minute. Only one of those is true, on a completely different scale, by the way, and there are _consequences_ for using magic that powerful."

"We'll deal with _consequences_ later. I think getting us out of Carthak tonight is a good idea, since Ozorne is after both our heads," she retorted. "We don't have to go far, just across the Inland Sea. To Tortall."

"That's not the one that's true. Teleportation isn't something I can do," he explained, his hands falling back into his lap.

"Then use another spell that will get us out of here."

"I can't. Ozorne will have detection spells for my Gift. Any major working will set them off. Any minor working too, if Chioké is advising him." Numair met her emerald eyes. "I can't magically whisk us away."

Rana narrowed her eyes, searching his gaze for a lie that wasn't there. Then, fury descended on her features. "Then what did I save you for?" she snarled. "I brought you back from the brink of death." She drew her coin pouch out of her waistband and upended it, a lone copper nit falling into her palm. "I spent everything. Everything I've saved in three years to buy you food. To get your Gift back to what it's supposed to be. And now that all my food is gone, now that you've eaten the last piece of fish, you tell me you can't get us out?" She got to her feet, towering over him. "I cleaned you. I fed you. I _saved_ you. And for what?" The young woman vanished into the tent, stuffed an outfit into her bag, and left for Thak City without a backward glance.

* * *

All day, he waited. He had banked the fire and tidied up the remnants of breakfast. He had fetched his meagre belongings from the tent and settled himself in the shadow of a few large rocks, a little way downriver. Sitting within view of the tent, Numair waited. He wasn't sure if Rana's anger was also a dismissal. Surely his inability to magic them out of Carthak meant she didn't want to harbour him anymore. But he felt he should at least thank her for all she had done. Maybe he could write her a note before he left? No, he didn't have anywhere else to go. Plus, Rana couldn't read. Ozorne would have know what to say and what gift to buy to temper Rana's anger. Varice, if she were here, would have smoothed the whole thing over before Rana had the chance to storm off to the city. He missed his old friends dearly.

When night fell and there was still no sign of her, Numair slowly made his way back to the tent. When Rana didn't return by sunset, that meant she had found a client. She slept with them for the night and returned in the morning. His stomach growled, protesting his lack of lunch and dinner. He eyed the last half-empty bag of lentils and shook his head. He felt too guilty to make any for himself. Rana was right, he had taken everything and given nothing in return. Feeling like he had overstayed his welcome, he drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Numair awoke to a brilliant idea. When he opened his eyes, Rana's juggling balls were a short distance from him. He picked up the six wooden balls, worn smooth with frequent use. Outside, he started with two balls, letting his hands settle into their rhythm. Slowly, he added one ball at a time, until all six were arcing through the air. He did have something to offer. He could juggle and help Rana earn back the money she had spent on him. Suddenly one ball vanished from his hands. Had he dropped it? Another ball vanished. The remaining four followed in quick succession and Numair dropped his gaze from the empty air above his head to Rana's furious face.

"_Never_ touch these again." She ducked into the tent.

"Rana, wait!" he followed her. "I never told you I can juggle. Master Yadeen taught me. I'll perform and help earn back your money. It's the least I can do before you throw me out."

She gently placed the juggling balls in the corner, adding the juggling rods next to them. "Please send the Trickster back to the Copper Isles, Lady of the South," she murmured. "Don't touch the juggling stuff," she repeated sternly. Rana pulled a bag of aish out of her pack and placed it next to their last bag of lentils. "Eat. I'm not throwing you out." She exchanged yesterday's outfit for another and hoisted her bag back onto her shoulders. "I'm going back to Thak City. If you want to earn money, you will dance or sing. No juggling." When he didn't protest, she took his silence for acceptance. "I'll be back tomorrow. Stay out of trouble until then." She turned her back on him and walked away, same as yesterday.

Numair sat inside the tent, burying his face in his hands. He couldn't teleport them to safety. Even his attempt to help had made her angry. Really, what had she saved him for?

* * *

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Numair blurted as soon as Rana was within earshot. "I just wanted to help."

She waved away his apology and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Rana produced a bag of rice and tossed it inside the tent. "I was always told that my temper is like a sandstorm. It comes out of nowhere, tears you to pieces, and disappears just as quickly." She sighed as she sat next to him by the fire. "I just needed time to calm down. We needed the money anyway."

"How are you managing to make enough to buy that much food?" he asked, bewildered. In the past two days, she'd brought back what she usually purchased in a week.

"I perform during the day and I steal from my night clients."

"You what?!"

"Steal, Master Numair. It's a wonderful set up. They can't accuse the bedwarmer of stealing, because then they'd have to admit they paid for a bedwarmer." She grinned devilishly, her teeth bright against her swarthy skin.

"You shouldn't steal," he frowned.

"I only steal from the ones who can afford it. And I only steal when I need to. Like now," she pointed out, gesturing at the tent and its depleted food supply.

"But it's stealing! It's against the law."

"Sometimes you need to break the law to survive," she retorted. "If the rich spent some of their jewels helping the poor, maybe I wouldn't have to steal to eat."

"But what if you get caught?" he said, trying a different angle.

"I won't." Reaching up, she drew her fingers through her hair, parting it on the right.

His jaw dropped as he took in her now black hair. "That is incredible. Genius. Each half of your hair is a different colour. Depending on which side it's parted on, it can be largely blonde or black. A built-in disguise. Was it your idea?"

"...Yes," she said, after a pause. "That glazed pot you peeked in? Yes, I know you opened it. Coconut oil. Keeps the blonde half healthy." Rana stood, dusting some flecks of campfire ash off her clothes. "Now if you're done trying to stop me from stealing, we have work to do."

He stood and followed her. "What kind of work?"

"You need to learn to dance," she smiled.

* * *

On Midwinter's Day, Rana came back from the city to find Numair lounging by the fire. "I thought I told you to practice your steps every morning."

He shielded his eyes from the sun to glance at her. "It's Midwinter. I think I deserve a day off."

"You don't earn money by taking days off," she said pointedly.

"It's just one-" He stopped short. Rana had acted so normal that he hadn't noticed her injuries. Her bottom lip was cut and dark bruises were forming on both her cheeks. On her arms, the bruises looked suspiciously like fingers in a very firm grip. "What happened to you? Come here, let me see."

"It's nothing," she said, pulling her hand gently from his grip.

"Did you get robbed?" he asked.

"No." She was silent, emerald eyes boring into his. "Work happened," she said finally.

"A spectator did this?" he demanded, shocked. Most people stopped to watch Players for a few minutes and then got on with their day, usually without parting with a single coin. He didn't think it impossible, but he'd never heard of attacks on the performers.

"A client," Rana corrected sourly.

"What?!" Now he was livid.

"Don't, Numair," she sighed, laying a hand on his clenched fist and dragging the other through her hair. "It was part of the deal."

He stared at her in confusion.

"I know a man whose fantasy is to beat Sirajit swine before raping it. For a fee, I'll play along."

"You _let_ someone beat you?" he cried.

"For three times what I usually charge? Yes." She touched her cheek gently, feeling the puffiness of the bruise and wincing. "Tonight I'll go see another client. He likes to pretend I'm an abused woman who's run away from her husband because I've fallen in love with him. He also pays triple because I have to look like this first."

Numair was so disgusted he actually felt nauseous. "That is revolting."

She smiled briefly. Even though she didn't know what 'revolting' meant, she could guess by his tone. It was good to know he was so offended on her behalf. "That's life. Welcome to the streets. And not the pretty ones near the university."

"There must be another way," he said softly, his heart breaking for her. "A way without stealing, and beating. And _selling yourself_."

"In Tortall, there is. I'll join the Court of the Rogue," she said dreamily, lying back on the ground.

"The what?" he frowned.

"It's not just the king that has a court," she said wickedly. "There's a King of Thieves in Tortall. His court is made of people who deserve it. People who have proven their worth and worked hard for him, not soft lordlings born into money."

Numair crossed his arms. "And does the King of Thieves do as his title says?"

She rolled her emerald eyes at his disapproval. "Yes, he steals. And holds court. And keeps the criminals in line."

"A Court of Rogues…" Numair laughed, picturing a pack of ruffians dining with gold goblets and silver spoons. "And it's the Lord Provost that keeps criminals in line."

"Only the ones he can catch." She winked.


	4. Chapter 4

Numair sat, exhausted, as he watched Rana scoop up the coins they'd earned that day. Who knew dancing could be so tiring? And he had had the secondary role. Rana danced around him as he provided a supporting arm or two and tried to look poised.

"Not bad, for your first day. You need to relax your face though. Stop looking like you're trying to remember every little step."

"I look like I'm trying to remember every little step because that's what I'm trying to do, he grumbled, chin in his hand. He'd tried not to crumple in relief when Rana had subtly used her Gift while she danced, drawing all eyes to her instead of his awkward self. Though he could resist the pull of her Gift, he often found his eyes following her too. Her effortless movements and her blonde hair floating on the wind behind her.

"Improvise," she laughed, extending a hand to help him up. "I'll dance around you."

"I think I should do it right before I do it wrong," he said, shaking his head.

They made their way from the small square towards a row of street food vendors, letting their noses make the choice for dinner. They lined up for some hearty lentil stew, letting the crowd flow around them.

"What are you getting?" Numair asked, scanning the menu.

"The one on the right," she replied. "It looks really good."

He raised an eyebrow, confused, until he saw that she was looking at the pots of soup lined up on the vendor's cart, not the one-column menu. "That's the one with roasted eggplant and corn."

Rana pulled a face. "Oh, never mind. I don't like eggplant. I thought that was halloumi. What does that one say?"

"The second from the left is roasted red pepper and garlic," he read to her.

"Oh, that one then."

"Literacy has its perks, you know," he said, smiling slightly as they shuffled forward in the line.

Rana pouted, hating to admit that he was right. "I could just ask the seller when we get to the front."

"It didn't sound like you were going to ask," he pointed out, "you sounded pretty certain. Besides, it's never too late to learn."

She blew a sigh. Maybe her hunger was clouding her brain. "Okay, what does that one say?" she asked, pointing.

"Beef lentil stew," he read off the small homemade sign.

"And that one?"

"Celery and white bean lentil stew. The last two words on each sign are 'lentil stew'."

"Oh, okay, lentil and stew aren't hard," she nodded.

Numair smiled. "Ah, but it isn't sufficient to know how the word looks. You need to be able to spell it as well. So you can sound it out. Or sound out the other words you don't know. There are over a hundred thousand words in Common, and no way to memorize them all."

Rana frowned. "What does 'sufficient' mean?"

"Enough," he supplied. His vocabulary explanations had gotten quite concise in the four months he'd spent with Rana. She still out-simplified him on occasion, but at least she didn't roll her eyes at his first attempts to clarify his words anymore.

"I speak Common, and there's at least half of the words that I don't even know. How am I supposed to learn to read it if I can't speak it?" she asked, bewildered.

"Very slowly. Just as it takes years to master dancing or juggling, it takes years to master reading."

"Dancing _while_ juggling is easier than reading," she joked.

Numair laughed. "I beg to differ!"

"What are you begging for?" she asked, confused.

* * *

"Om-ar's uh... something clo-thes," Rana sounded out. She had been buying from Omar for years, and was only now able to read some of the words painted on his awning.

"Try it," he urged her.

She pursed her lips but gave it a shot nonetheless. "Cap-tee-vah-ting...?"

"Not bad," he said approvingly. Once she put her mind to practicing her letters as much as she practiced her dancing, she'd made remarkable progress. "It's pronounced 'captivating' though."

"Captivating," she repeated, trying out the syllables on her tongue. "What does captivating mean?"

"Attention-grabbing," Numair answered, turning to her. "Being unable to look away."

She tried not to blush under the intensity of his gaze. "Seems like I'm his perfect customer then, what with my Gift and all." The woman sauntered over to the stall, greeting Omar warmly.

"You don't need your Gift to be captivating," he said under his breath as he followed.

Rana sifted through the neat stacks of clothes on display, eventually settling on a bright red top and a pair of light grey pants to replace the pair she'd worn through last week. "Just these today, Omar."

"Wait a minute." Numair plucked the clothes from her hands. He ran his long fingers over the fabric. "Cotton?" he asked, addressing the man operating the stall.

"Only the finest," the little man said proudly. "Carthaki."

"Pure Carthaki?" he asked, handing the pants to Rana and examining the shirt closely, his long nose nearly touching the garment.

"Indeed." Omar replied, puffing out his chest. "Oasis knows I have high quality pieces for great prices."

"A quarter of these staples are too short to be Carthaki," he frowned.

"It's just natural variation," he said dismissively, flapping his hands.

"A quarter is much too high for natural variation. A quarter is fibre blending," he said absently. "This isn't pure Carthaki cotton."

"Now sir, I assure you that I only carry the best fabrics. And I believe the lady was the one interested in doing business, not you." Omar reached out to take back the shirt but Numair kept it easily out of his reach.

"The lovely lady is my friend and it is my business if you're about to charge her ten times what these clothes are actually worth."

"Numair, I've been buying from Omar for years. Stop making a scene."

He held up a finger. "Some of your clothes are quite well made, but nothing here comes even close," he murmured, still examining the red shirt like it was written with fine text detailing its entire life history. "Threads are uneven," he stated quietly. He shook out the shirt and held it up to the sunlight. "And the density of the weave is mediocre." He flipped it over, checking the bottom and the sleeves. "Hems aren't even double rolled. This isn't nearly the quality you're claiming it to be."

"Oasis, I don't think this... this... slave," he stammered, gesturing at Numair's cropped hair, "insulting my product is necessary for us to do a little business!" he exclaimed, making another attempt to grab the shirt.

"He's not a slave," she snapped at Omar, green eyes flashing. "Numair, how do you know this stuff?"

Expertly, he folded the shirt back up and placed it gently back onto the counter. "I come from a long line of cloth merchants, tailors, and seamstresses. I've known fabric from the cradle."

"Omar?" she growled. Her fingers danced at the nape of her neck, the faintest green glow drawing his eyes to the dagger hilt that peeked out from her neckline.

"Alright! Alright." He raised his hands in surrender. "Ever since His Imperial Highness took the throne, Tortall hasn't exactly been friendly. They're asking for more cotton than ever, and trade taxes have gone sky high," he blurted. "I've had to make some... adjustments to keep profit up," Omar admitted.

"By cheating your customers."

"No, no," the little man shook his head vigorously. "I didn't want to cheat anyone. But with the taxes-"

"Enough about the taxes!" Rana shouted, slamming her hands on the counter. "You are a liar and a cheat who wants to keep loading his pockets while the whole empire suffers. Let's see how many of the Players hear about you by sunset." She threw the grey pants back at Omar and stormed off, leaving Numair to hurriedly follow.

By the time they were nearing the city's edge, Rana's pace had slowed. "Are you really going to out him to the other Players?" he asked. "He's telling the truth about the taxes. I've never seen them this high. The man probably has a family to feed."

"A wife and two sons. I know." She sighed, leaning against an alley wall and running a hand through her hair. "Also the meanest cat you've ever met."

"They'll all starve if you tell."

"But he has to pay. Players and common folk have little enough to spare as it is." She stared up at the sky for a few long moments as she made up her mind. "Okay, let's go," the woman said finally. As they wove through the streets on their way home, Rana stopped Players and whispered in their ears.

With each whispered conversation, Numair's stomach sank a bit lower. There really was no honour among thieves. Once they left the city behind, he shook his head at her self-satisfied smirk. "I can't believe you look so happy about a man losing his business."

"Who Omar? No, he's about to get a flood of business. Oasis the dancer just told some of her friends that he's changed his clothes offerings for some cheaper options. Two for one until sunset tonight, and brand new prices starting tomorrow." She tossed her blonde hair. "He'll take a hit tonight and his pockets will get slimmer, but his family won't starve."

* * *

He followed Rana through the lower districts of the city, his belly full of some Sirajit dish he couldn't pronounce, observing with fascination the changing of the guard. All the daytime vendors were stowing their wares, other performers like them packing up props and taking down miniature stages. The night life moved into the spots as they were vacated. Alcohol and tobacco sellers lit their torches. Other men and women stationed along the sides of the streets had no wares advertised at all, their less savoury and possibly illegal products and services passed on by word of mouth alone.

"Let me do the talking," Rana whispered as she approached an unremarkable man lounging at the opening to a shadowy alley.

The back of Numair's neck prickled and he looked around for any sign of imperial soldiers.

"New friend, I see," the man said, his brown eyes flicking from Rana to Numair.

"If only he didn't show it by staring at everything and checking for imperial soldiers every five seconds."

She nudged his foot.

Numair flushed and turned back to face them. "Sorry," he muttered.

"And what does the beautiful Oasis bring to quench my thirst tonight?" he asked smoothly, extending one hand with a flourish.

The woman produced a small pouch from somewhere in her waistband and upended it into his palm. A collection of gems and jewellery tumbled out, sparkling in the low light. "A weeks' work," she drawled.

Numair's eyes went wide. Those jewels would feed them for at least three weeks. Had she stolen them all? And had she been carrying them in her waistband all this time?

The man didn't see Numair's reaction, too busy sorting through the sparkling nest in his hands. He selected a few of the pieces, inspecting them closely, then named a price.

Rana snorted and shook her head. She picked a pair of earrings from the pile and held them up. "These two? Blue diamonds. Talk them up proper and they'll pay for themselves twice over." She countered with triple his offer.

He frowned, looking skeptical. "You ask so much of a poor merchant," he sighed dramatically.

"If you're poor, I'm short. Besides, would I lie to you, my prince?" She bowed low before him.

He plucked up her hand and brushed his lips against it. Behind her back, Numair's brows snapped together and he glared. The man raised an eyebrow as he let Rana's hand go. "Never, my dear." He produced a bag of coins from his loose garments. "Very well, you'll have your price." He counted out what she had demanded, and the money changed hands.

"My prince," she said in farewell, bowing her head and tucking the coins away.

When they'd rounded the corner, Numair turned to her. "Who was that? He's not a prince, I've never seen him at court."

Rana laughed. "Price Ali isn't a real prince. I don't think Ali is even his name. He's my fence. Deals mostly in metals but he trusts my word when it comes to gems."

"Just like that?"

"I come from a long line of gem cutters," she said curtly, stealing his words from a few days prior.

He heard the door close on that part of the conversation. "How often do you see Ali?" he asked instead.

"About once a week." Surprise flashed across her features for a moment as a realization hit her. "Is this about the stealing or about Ali?"

"The stealing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

She smiled to herself. "Stealing makes a lot of money. Unless you want to find a way to replace that money, I'm not stopping."

Numair sighed. Their moral compasses didn't point the same direction, and Rana's definitely wasn't budging.

* * *

Numair accepted vegetable kebabs from Rana as she sat down next to him for lunch. "Not much for the morning," he said disappointedly. A few weeks ago, he had successfully badgered Rana into letting him spend a few nits on a poorly made set of juggling balls. He'd argued that he could juggle to help earn money, but he couldn't help if all the juggling tools in her tent were off limits. She had caved, he'd practiced, and this morning was his first time performing alone. The bright red square of cloth near where he stood held dishearteningly few coins for the hours he had spent juggling in the sun.

"Yuv got shkill but you dun puhform," she said around a mouthful of food.

He winced. He didn't often miss high society, but the general lack of manners in the streets was appalling. "Could you repeat that?"

"You've got skill, but you don't perform," she repeated, once she'd swallowed. Rana wolfed down the remainder of her lunch and stood, picking up his juggling balls and coin cloth, and handing him his earnings. "Come, I'll show you." She gestured for him to follow. "First, the space. You need to pick somewhere that people can stop and watch. A square or market is best. But a street is fine as long as it's wide enough that your spectators aren't getting pushed along by people getting on with their day. This street is too narrow." She nodded at the square they were walking up to. "That will be better."

He nodded as he chewed on his lunch. It made a lot of sense.

Rana walked along the edge of the square until she judged that spectators would have plenty of room to stand. "Second, the crowd. You know that I sing before I start to dance. It draws people. Now, I don't think you'll sing, so you can do this." She placed his juggling balls down by her feet and wrapped a wooden ball in the red coin cloth. Rana tossed it high in the air, announcing her location to people in the square. She caught it, expertly letting the ball roll from the heel of her hand to her fingertips before tossing it up into the air again. "Something bright and repeating will always get attention. Just keep at it for a few minutes, and people will come see."

The woman kept throwing the improvised red ball to the same height, falling into a rhythm. He saw the sureness of a once-learned skill in her movements. She tossed it to exactly where she wanted it in the air, and never looked panicked about making the catch. Looking past her, Numair saw people craning their necks their direction. Some, eating lunches of their own, slowed and stopped.

"Some days, the crowd builds slow," she told him quietly, her eyes still on the juggling ball. "You have to keep the people you have entertained." Rana ducked under the ball, catching it behind her back, before returning it to the air. A murmur of 'ooh' rippled through the gathering audience. "But never add another ball. That's the base of your show, don't use it in the crowd draw." This time, she did a flashy little turn while the ball was aloft. More people stopped to watch, sensing the show was nearing. "And when your crowd is here," she caught it for the final time, unwinding the cloth and setting it down, "the coin cloth goes down, and you begin." Rana scooped up the juggling balls and handed them to him, leaning in to whisper, "Oh, and if you can do off-weight juggling, use it to work the crowd. Ask for child's toys, necklaces, anything you can throw. People love that."

He stepped in front of her as she went to move past him. "Join me. You can juggle, I can see it in your movements," he said quietly.

"No. You know this isn't my thing," she said, hurrying away and disappearing into the crowd.

Numair stared after her, puzzled. Had she ever mentioned juggling except to tell him that her tools were off limits? The murmuring of the crowd brought him back to the present, and he tossed a ball high into the air.

As evening lit the sky, Rana nodded in approval at the coins heaped on the red cloth. "See what you can do when you perform?"

"Sure," he said jokingly. He considered himself well-educated, and yet she had shown him a whole world he knew nothing about. "Is it... enough?" he asked, as he gathered the coins.

She dipped her hand into the pile and sifted through them, scanning the different denominations he had earned. "Yes, alright. You can juggle," she agreed.

A wide grin split his face. He was much happier juggling than dancing. Somehow, his ability to keep five objects in the air simultaneously didn't translate to being any more graceful than a newborn stork. Numair tucked away the coins. "Um...," he began uncertainly.

She looked at him expectantly, waiting.

"I also meant... is it enough... for you... to stop stealing?" he finally said.

"No."

But the tiny pause before she spoke gave him a glimmer of hope. Maybe someday he'd be able to talk her out of it. Not today, but someday. Numair headed in the direction of dinner, but soon realized she hadn't followed. Turning around, he expected to see her angry. He had brought up stealing yet again, but instead she had a mournful smile on her face. "Rana?"

She blinked, coming back to the present. "Coming."

"Is something the matter?" he asked gently as she drew level with him. "I'm sorry I brought up the stealing again, it's just..."

She sighed heavily and brushed her hair away from her face. "No, it's not that. It's fine."

He was hungry enough that dinner was his main concern, but he sensed that things probably weren't fine.


	5. Chapter 5

Numair waited patiently as Rana examined the label in front of the small glazed bottle, mouthing the words silently to herself. It was his birthday, and she offered to buy him some date wine to celebrate. As an additional gift to him, he'd asked her to find his preferred wine by reading the product descriptions. She had already diligently read through half of the options in the tiny store with that cute little frown between her eyebrows that appeared when she was concentrating.

Finally, she plucked one off the shelf. "Here. Quite sweet, oaky, and warming spiciness."

Numair read the flavour card of the wine and nodded his agreement. "Well done."

She huffed. "How do you read so _fast_?" she demanded jealously as they headed to the cashier.

"I've been at it for fifteen years, give or take. You've only had what, six months?" They paid for the wine and began the long walk back. "You've done remarkably, by the way."

"Only because you make me practice my letters after every time I dance," she mumbled.

With her dark skin, it was harder to tell, but she looked like she was blushing. Rana changed the subject, and when they made it back to the narrow tent called home, he broke the wax seal on the wine. She indulged in a few sips, but insisted he have most if it. It was his birthday after all. As the sun set, Numair savoured the last of the date wine, leaning against her, their feet dipped into the cool water of the river.

"You know, this is not how I thought I'd be spending my birthday this time last year," he sighed, resting his head on her shoulder.

"How did you think you'd be spending it?"

Numair laughed. "Sitting on the floor of the imperial kitchens, eating cake with Varice."

"With everything I've heard about Varice, I'm sad she didn't run away with you. She seems like fun."

He leaned back on his hands and looked towards the disappearing silhouette of Thak City. "Varice wasn't just fun. She was always trying to help everyone get along. And a brilliant kitchen witch too."

"All right, lover boy," she warned, kicking a small eddy in his direction. "I get it. I'm sorry you have to put up with plain old me, so stop talking before you get to face my sandstorm anger again."

He raised a large hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Put up with you? That couldn't be further from the truth." She was gorgeous, graceful, and tough as nails. He'd been on the run for nearly a year and she'd taught him how to eke out a life that was surprisingly pleasant. Especially with her company.

She smiled softly at him for a moment before she pulled away. "Come on, let's get inside before the bugs come out."

He sighed. She always grew distant when he was affectionate, and tonight was no exception. Maybe her last relationship had ended poorly. He wouldn't know. She never talked about love. He followed after her, and by the time he pushed through the flaps, Rana was already stuffing a very colourful and very revealing outfit into her pack. His eyebrows pinched together. "Are you… working? Tonight?"

"Yeah," she answered curtly.

"But it's my birthday!"

"Yes, _your_ birthday," she said, keeping her back to him. "You've lazed away the day, enjoyed a bottle of wine, and now you're five minutes away from falling into a very restful sleep. I'd say you've had a great birthday." She added a shimmery copper necklace to her pack and tied it shut. "Now I'm going to find someone very rich and very sex-deprived. The smugglers are charging twice what they were this time last year and gold doesn't just grow in the sand."

Rana turned to leave, but he blocked her way. "You're going to spend your night with one of those lecherous brutes instead of me?" he demanded.

"You have no say in this." She narrowed her eyes at him, searching. "I knew it. You're jealous."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are," she snarled, anger flooding her emerald eyes. "I knew from the start that you didn't like the bedwarmer thing. That's fine. Lots of people don't like us. But then you started frowning at Ali every time I flirted with him, even though you've seen that he doesn't do business with anyone who _doesn't_ flirt with him. And then you started being the worst grouch in the mornings, but only the mornings after I spent the night in the city." She glared at him, daring him to contradict her.

"I'm not jealous of those animals who use you and throw you away like spoiled children do their toys," he seethed, his hands balling into fists.

"No." She stepped closer to him, their chests nearly touching. "But you hate that they get to sleep with me," she growled.

His jaw dropped open in stunned offense, but the denial wouldn't come.

"I know desire, Numair," she sighed, her anger losing some of its wind. "I know when I see it. I saw it in you months ago. I thought I could ignore it and it would go away."

He flushed.

Rana looked up at him. "But it's still there. You still follow me with your eyes. You still try to stand close to me. And you're always gentle when you touch me, even if it's just to get my attention."

"Can you blame me?" he mumbled. "You saved my life. You're beautiful. I've spent 8 years at the imperial university and still you teach me-"

"Numair, stop," she begged, placing a hand on his chest. Her wrath had blown over. "I know that you want me. But _we_ are never going to happen."

He gently settled his hands on her shoulders. "Rana, just give me a chance. Please. Just one." She backed away and his hands fell limply to his sides.

"I can't. I can't love you like a lover."

"Why not?" he pleaded.

"Great Goddess give me patience," she said to the ceiling, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Because you're too much like him."

"Like who?" He would beat the man who had broken her heart.

"My brother. Halim."

"Oh." That was not what he was expecting.

She dropped her bag and gestured for him to follow. There they were again, sitting on the river bank, their toes in the water. This time they left a respectful distance between them. The bugs were out, and though Numair was swatting them away every once in a while, Rana didn't seem to notice at all. She started up at the dark blue sky, quiet.

"How come I've never met your brother?" he asked hesitantly.

"He's dead," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," Numair replied awkwardly, unsure what else to say.

"It was three years ago," she said hollowly. "We were working. Dancing. There was a boy in the crowd, dripping with jewels. Rings on every finger. Opal necklace. Gold beads in his black hair."

"No," Numair gasped, memory stirring. "Ozorne. Ozorne and his ruby ring."

She nodded ruefully. "The ruby ring."

"Your brother was the boy that stole the ruby ring from Ozorne."

She shook her head, drawing circles with her toes in the river. "My brother was performing when the ruby ring was stolen. Normally, I danced and he picked. My Gift helps keep eyes off him. But we switched that day. Because I asked him to. For my birthday." Rana finally dropped her gaze from the stars and looked at him. "I stole the ruby ring."

Numair stared at her agape.

"I thought he'd never notice, what with all the jewels he wore," she murmured, looking back up to the sky.

"But- but he was the _crown prince_!" He stuttered. He wanted to grab her and shake her. Even before he took the throne, Ozorne's reputation for brutality was no secret. "And he was never merciful either."

"We didn't know he was the prince," she snorted. "We'd seen him from far once or twice when the imperial family paraded through the streets, but we didn't know what he really looked like. We were more focused on pickpocketing the crowd than watching the imperial family ride by," she explained.

"But the Imperial Seal on the ring meant no one would buy it." Ozorne's mother had insisted the entire family's personal jewellery be carved or stamped with the Seal for this exact reason.

"We didn't even get that far. I didn't recognize the Seal, but Halim did. He dropped the ring like a hot coal when I gave it to him, all proud of myself for picking that fat ruby."

"And Ozorne found you right away, didn't he? He started spelling his possessions when we were at university."

She nodded. "The sun hadn't even set. Halim had the ring. He said we had to leave it somewhere on the street where we'd performed. Hope the prince thought he'd dropped it. I wasn't tall back then. Not yet. Halim saw the prince coming before I did. He pushed me into an alley and pretended that he stole the ring."

"What did Ozorne do?" Numair asked, his stomach sinking. When Ozorne told the story back in their rooms, he'd vaguely said that he'd 'taken care of' the thief.

"He cut off my brother's hand," she said thickly. "And then the other one too. He made a show of it, telling the whole street that this was the price of stealing in Carthak. And Halim was screaming at his feet the whole time." She shivered, still hearing the echoes of her brother's pain.

He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't think he should be the one closing the respectful distance between them just now. "That sounds like Ozorne," he said grimly. "What happened after that?"

"I went to him after the prince left, but he wouldn't stop bleeding... He died." Her eyes were wet with tears but they didn't fall. She'd cried her tears for him long ago.

"I'm so sorry," Numair whispered. He could hardly believe that Ozorne had cut off a boy's hands and returned so calmly to their shared room.

She swallowed, blinking the unshed tears away. "He was everything I ever had... And after he was gone the Trickster led me to you. I'd bet he's having a great laugh about it right now. You're just like Halim. Except taller. And Tyran."

"The juggling balls are Halim's," Numair deduced. "That's why you didn't want me using them."

"They're all I have left of him. I had to throw him in the river. No one would touch a thief that had stolen from the prince." Rana trailed her fingers through the water. "I didn't used to like the river. But I don't mind it so much now." She swatted a bug off her arm, slowly coming out of her melancholy stupor. "That's how I lost Halim. When you took up juggling, it was almost like he'd come back from the dead." Rana finally stood, offering a hand up to Numair. Together, they made their way back to the shelter of the tent. She stretched out on the bedroll, leaving space for him. In the darkness, she finished her recounting. "I started working as a bedwarmer after that. Made up for Halim's... not working anymore. And well, he wasn't around to stop me. I worked until I had a client in the palace. I flipped my hair to black whenever I worked with him. And I used him to get inside the palace I killed Ozorne's new peacock."

"You killed his peacock... as vengeance for your brother," he mused, laying down beside her.

"Well I couldn't get to Ozorne no matter how I tried. He was next in line by then. So, I went after something he cared about. People guard people. They forget to guard pets. It wasn't nearly enough payback for Halim, but I was happy I'd hurt him. That was a year and a half ago, and I've been trying to leave Carthak ever since."

"I'm sorry about your brother." Numair found her shoulder in the dark and gave it a squeeze, an awkward middle ground between his sorrow for her loss, his feelings for her, and attempting to respect her wishes to keep their relationship platonic.

"Stop saying sorry, Numair," a hint of a smile creeping into her voice for the first time since she'd begun her tale. "It's not your fault." Rana rolled onto her side and fell asleep within a few minutes.

Beside her, he lay awake late into the night, wondering if there was anything he could have said or done to stop his once best friend.

* * *

"Happy birthday," he said tiredly, handing her his coin pouch. It felt strange, handing her money instead of a gift, but she had insisted the only thing she wanted for her birthday was to leave the Empire. Numair decided the best he could do for that was to juggle through the night and earn extra coin. All in all, it hadn't been a bad night. Drunks were generous with their money and Rana had made sure he had a knife and knew how to fight off trouble before he left.

"Good work, Player Numair," she said appreciatively, hefting the pouch.

Rana had started calling him a Player just after his birthday, but he hadn't felt deserving of the title until just recently. Great Gods, he had seen 'Player' as a burden rather than a badge of honour until six months ago. How his life had changed. "What have you been up to all morning?" he asked, resting his weary feet.

"Thinking you need another haircut," she said instantly, producing her dagger from seemingly nowhere.

Numair grumbled but went to fetch the soap. In the past year, he hadn't won a single haircut argument with her. He hated his hair short, but he couldn't deny that it was a very effective disguise. On the rare occasions that he saw a wanted poster of himself, the page still showed him with his long hair. In a flash, Rana had worked up a lather, and began cutting away. He sat quietly as she worked, and soon enough his torture was over. She carefully wiped a clump of remaining suds off the top of his ear. "You used to cut Halim's hair." He'd suspected that owning a dagger for a long time wasn't the reason for her skill with haircutting.

"Yeah. And then I cut my own. He could never figure it out." Rana's eyes flicked to the river before looking back at him.

"I'm sure he misses you just as much," Numair said comfortingly.

"Do you think he'll know that we left?" she asked softly.

"Left?"

"When we go to Tortall."

It had been over a month since either of them had mentioned their escape to Tortall and frankly, he'd almost forgotten. "There are pigeons in Tortall. I'm sure they'll tell the Black God where we've gone. And he'll tell Halim for us."

The corner of Rana's mouth quirked up in a half smile. "I thought you were too smart to believe old wives' tales."

"If you believe it, I'll say it's true." He slung an arm over her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. It had taken time for him to navigate the waters of unrequited love. At least Rana had been helpful, sitting him down and laying out the boundaries firmly and uncomfortably explicitly.

She touched his arm for a moment before he let go. "Thanks, Numair."

"So... when do we leave?" He had watched heir savings grow steadily over the year, but he didn't know the price of their escape. He was too proper for Rana to bring along when she met with the smugglers. They could spot a noble in any crowd and would disappear on the wind immediately.

Rana chewed her lip. "Could've left last week," she mumbled finally.

He stopped in his tracks. "Really? That's great! Are they waiting for a good time to cross the Inland Sea? For someone to make a return voyage? Or is it..." he trailed off. She was looking entirely too sombre for finally being able to leave Carthak. "What's the matter?"

She ran her hands through her hair, tossing her blonde and black strands together. She only ever played with her hair when she was stressed. "I need to show you something." Rana led the way into their tent. The woman sat on the floor and gently picked up one of Halim's juggling rods. With her pinky nail, she pushed on a spot near the end of the rod, forcing a small round plug of wood out of the rod. The plug had been hidden so well that anyone would have had a hard time finding it. With the plug removed, she pulled the end off the rod, revealing something black and shiny nestled firmly in a small compartment. Rana took one look at his half-open mouth and answered, "It's Yamani wood joinery. Traveling Player we met back when I was 10." She wiggled the shiny stone out of the compartment and Numair seized the chance to inspect the three simple pieces of wood that made such a clever hidden compartment. Rana laughed to herself. "Only you'd be more interested in the wood than this." She opened her palm. There lay a small opal, fires of blue, green, and orange dancing in its black depths. The strips of colour lay in the shape of a single peacock feather.

"It's beautiful," he gasped, picking it up delicately. It was tiny in his large hands. "Opals are wonderful for holding magic, but something like this would fetch a hundred times a plain stone."

"I know. My parents were gem cutters. Halim was learning when the rebellion broke out."

Numair blinked. "The rebellion. Right." She was Sirajit. Of course she and her family would have been affected by the uprising in their home country. At the time, Carthakis had been brutal to the Sirajit that lived here. Muggings, beatings, lootings, and burnings happened daily at the height of the conflict.

"They made a deal with some Players to leave Carthak until everything calmed down. They sent Halim and me ahead with the opal. When it was time to leave, my parents still hadn't come. So they Players took us and left without them."

"Did you ever... find them?" he breathed.

Rana shook her head. "We toured with the Players for a few years. By the time we came back, there was no sign of them." She took the opal back from his hand and ran her thumb over the surface. "Halim wouldn't sell it. We spent weeks at the gem markets, trying to find the merchant my parents cut for. And the weeks turned into 13 years."

"I'm sorry."

"You always say that when I talk about my past."

"Because it's true. You deserved better."

She wiped away a tear with her knuckle and placed the opal back where it usually hid. "There's a gem show coming to the city tomorrow," Rana said quietly, not looking up from the work of piecing back the Yamani joinery back together.

"New moon isn't for another two weeks," he said, standing. "Makes no sense to leave before then."

The woman nodded silently.

Numair placed a hand warmly on her shoulder. "We'll find 'better'. In Tortall."

Rana grinned, though her eyes were still wet. "We will."


	6. Chapter 6

Tonight was the night. Everything was ready. They'd paused on their walk to the docks to give offerings to their Gods and Goddesses. He went to the temples of Mithros, Mynoss, Shakith, and the Hag. She only went to the Trickster and the Hag, but she spent longer in each holy house. They left the remainder of their food on the altars.

In the darkness, Numair followed Rana as she wove her way through the alleys. The smugglers had made it clear they were only to bring items that were either useful or irreplaceable. He carried in his pack his black mage robe, his two books, a couple toiletries, and the belt knife that Rana had forced upon him a few months ago. Her bag was just as depleted as his, having sold off the majority of her performing clothes, the tent, and even Halim's juggling balls. Her brother's juggling rods and the concealed peacock opal lay in the bottom of her bag, under the heap of coins they would hand over to the smugglers. Her dagger hid somewhere on her person, sharpened, just in case.

The woman finally stopped by the end of the pier. Reaching up, she flipped her hair from blonde to black. "That's my part. Now we wait," she said softly. She drummed her fingers on her hip.

Numair peered around, trying to see anything in the near-darkness of the new moon. He inhaled sharply as he felt a prick of cold metal on the small of his back.

"The docks are no place for a pretty lady this late at night, bodyguard or no," a voice rasped behind Rana, another knife also pressed to her back.

"The docks are a good place to find smoke, dust, and mist all together," she snapped.

Numair's heart had been pounding already, but now it began to race. Was she insane? That was no way to talk when at knifepoint.

A figure detached itself from the pier and waved a hand. The knives at their backs fell away. The wiry man approached them and nodded in greeting. "Oasis. I had to check, you understand."

"How many people in Thak City have hair like me, Smoke?" she demanded in an angry whisper, running her hand through said blonde and black strands.

"His Imperial Majesty can get any girl to dye her hair to catch the eye of a couple... honest sailors." He smiled mischievously. He looked Numair up and down. "Quite a big Panther you're bringing along."

Numair frowned but said nothing.

"Still me plus one, just like I told you. We're not going to waste time bargaining again, are we?" Rana challenged.

"No, no. Fees as agreed." Smoke held out a hand for his payment.

Rana crossed her arms. "You checked us. We check the boat."

Smoke clicked his tongue. "Now that's not how business works. Money first."

"It is how business works with me," she stood her ground, eyes flashing. "The boat, Smoke."

He held her gaze for a long moment. "Dust, Mist, you heard the lady," he said finally. The two men who had held them at knifepoint stepped past them and ducked below the pier, leading the group to a small nondescript vessel. "You sure I can't convince you to stay?" Smoke asked her. "I like fiery." He smiled suggestively.

Numair ground his teeth but held his tongue. She had told him to say _nothing_ until they had cast off from the Carthaki shore.

She ignored the man and climbed nimbly into the boat. She tapped the boards with her feet and tested the lines with her hands. She circled the boat and came back to Smoke, her inspection having been satisfactory. Rana dug the coins out of her pack and lowered the bag into his waiting hand. "I also know you like men," she winked.

Smoke grinned while one of either Dust or Mist let out a low whistle. "Should be a fun trip, Cap'n," the other said.

"On board, Panther," Smoke said, waving at Numair. "No time to lose."

Completely bewildered, Numair boarded the vessel. One moment they were at each other's throats, now they were grinning and slapping backs. He settled himself where Smoke pointed him and his stomach clenched when the boat lurched and they cast off from the shore.

Rana tucked herself beside him as they emerged from under the pier. "Comfortable?"

"No," he mumbled. They were both exceptionally tall individuals and though crates had been moved around to make some extra space for them, they were both still squished together. "I told you, I don't do well at sea. And what was that whole exchange anyway?"

"Just business. You've been existing on the wrong side of the law since you crossed the Emperor, but you're not _living_ on the wrong side of it. If you can stomach stealing one day, I'll introduce you to the real underworld. People like Ali are just the beginning."

"I'll just Play, thanks. Are you still going to steal? When we get to Tortall?"

"I've got to get the Rogue's attention somehow," she said cheekily.

He sighed. Today wasn't the day he was going to stop her from stealing either. Opening his pack, he pulled out one of his two books. There really wasn't enough light to read by, but he knew the whole thing cover to cover. He had read on the voyage from Tyra many years ago to pass the time too.

Rana's arm shot across his vision and plunged into his bag, feeling around. "Where's the third one?" she hissed. "The one in Ancient Thak?"

He blinked. Rana had only shown interest in his books once the entire time he'd known her. "I sent it back."

"Sent it? To who?" she demanded.

"To whom," he corrected, out of habit.

"Numair!" She seized his arm.

"To Master Lindhall," he said matter-of-factly. "With my translation."

"Goddess spare us," she breathed, closing her eyes.

"What? You said not to bring anything extra. Besides, the book always belonged to Master Lindhall!" he whispered at her retreating back as she scrambled to where Smoke stood, navigating the boat.

She dug their remaining coins out of her bag and pressed them into the smuggler's hand. "For the trouble," she said curtly.

"How much trouble?" he growled, narrowing his eyes.

She swallowed, running her fingers through her hair. "Imperial trouble."

Smoke quietly let out a long and colourful stream of curses. He signaled his crew. Dust and Mist sprang into action, raising the sail to catch the wind. They needed speed over stealth now. "What have you done?" he asked her.

"It wasn't me, it was the Panther," she said, glancing at Numair who still huddled on the deck. "Get us both to Tortall and I'll give you an opal worth ten times what I've already paid. Mithros strike me if I lie."

He nodded tensely. Even the most dishonest thief wouldn't abuse Mithros's name.

"What's happening?" he asked as she made her way back to him.

"The Emperor is coming," she told him, scanning the waters around them.

"He is? How did he know we were leaving? I thought you said these smugglers could be trusted!"

"It wasn't the smugglers. _You_ gave us away." Her green eyes turned to him. "If you're looking for someone, and you can't find them, you put watches on all their friends and family. Because that's what people do when they think they're safe. They send messages to their families. Or books to their friends." Rana's rage was barely in check, only because any raised voices would be heard far across the water.

The bottom fell out of his stomach. "I... I didn't realize..." In the past year he had learned so much that he'd never touched on at university. He'd learned about life on the streets. He'd become a Player and earned his wages instead of living off a stipend. He'd met so many people that Varice would have been proud. But, he supposed, he was still a book person after all. He still couldn't think the way people thought. The way Ozorne thought. And he had just jeopardized their entire escape with a book. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Doesn't matter now," Rana replied, her voice quivering.

In the darkness, a hulking shadow approached. Another vessel, equipped with oars cutting in and out of the water, gaining on their little sailboat with every stroke. Archers lined the bow, arrows nocked in their bowstrings. They wore no insignia but their well-crafted weapons and stiff stance screamed Imperial. A figure without a bow, a mage, raised his hands and red light bloomed above the ship, lighting up the night.

"Pick it up, boys!" Smoke called to Dust and Mist. The sound echoed across the water, but they had already been spotted. The sailors shouted at each other, coaxing every ounce of speed they could from the sail.

Yard by yard, the ship approached. Unyielding. Another mage raised an arm. The archers drew.

"Rana..." he stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her towards the bow of their boat, away from the archers.

"How's your Gift?" she asked hurriedly.

The mage's arm fell. Rana shimmered green. Every bow shifted, all attention drawn to her. The archers loosed. The arrows flew. They sunk into her, every single one. She fell to the deck, catching him on her way down.

"Rana? Rana!" His hands cupped her face. Somewhere under the red glow, the archers reloaded their bows, wood scraping against wood. "Oh Goddess. Rana." Was he praying? What for? There was too much blood. On the deck. Soaking into his clothes. On his hands.

She tried to smile but it was more of a wince. "Couldn't save Halim. But I... saved you."

The mage raised his arm.

"Rana, I didn't-"

"Isra, Arram. Isra," she whispered. Then there was a wet gurgle. A final wheezing exhale. And the light faded from her emerald eyes.

The mage's arm fell.

Arram gathered his Gift, Ozorne's tracing spells be damned, and it rose to meet him like an old friend. He threw it wide with his hands. Black fire, sparking with white, flooded the air above the boat. The arrows glanced off his magic, splashing into the water below. He gently laid Rana on the deck and turned his fury to the Emperor's ship. He hurled fire at the bow railing where the archers and mages stood, driving them back. He punched a hole in the side of the hull, a gaping void that began taking on water. The red light flickered and faded, the mages now preoccupied with keeping the ship afloat. Some archers attempted more shots, but the listing of their vessel drove their arrows wide. "Smoke! Which way do we go?"

The wiry captain pointed into the darkness where, somewhere, the Tortallan shore waited.

Arram plunged his Gift into the Inland Sea, creating a current to push them towards their destination.

The sailors wooped with joy. "We got us a magic Panther!" Mist cheered.

Smoke made a rude gesture towards the fading form of the imperial ship.

"Cap'n." Dust pointed at Rana's body, limp, littered with arrows, glassy eyes staring at the stars.

He nodded. "Lighten the cargo," he murmured.

Dust picked up the body and lowered it into the water.

At the sound of the _splash_, Arram spun around. "No!" he screamed, their sailboat stalling in the water without his Gift to propel them. He went to the side rail, but she had already vanished beneath the waves.

Dust sent her bag after its owner. He touched a knuckle to his forehead and saluted the sea. "Black God take you gentle," the sailors chorused.

Smoke turned to the mage. "We're not safe 'til we're on Tortallan soil," he said gruffly. "If you've any of that sparkly stuff left, put it in the water, Panther."

Choking on his tears, Arram drew on his Gift and pushed it into the water. He sent the magic down, down, but she was out of his reach.


	7. Epilogue

Onua raised her fist and pounded on the tall wooden door of the five-storey tower. "Numair?" she shouted in a general upward direction, forgetting that the windows of the top two floors that appeared open to the air were in fact covered with clear glass. "Numair!" she shouted again.

The door flew open to reveal Veralidaine Sarrasri, a teenager brimming with wild magic whose latest great accomplishment was preventing Chaos from consuming both the Divine and Mortal Realms two months ago. "What's the matter?" she asked worriedly. "Whitesock's wondering why you were riding him so hard," she said, referring to the black horse with one white foreleg that was sweating and breathing hard next to the K'mir.

"Where's Numair?" Onua asked, forgetting to answer the question.

"In his study, reading," Daine replied.

The older woman ran up the stairs and Daine started after her. "Probably best if you don't follow," she spun around to say. "Don't worry, Tortall is safe," Onua reassured her, seeing alarm on Daine's face. The memories of the recent war were not completely gone from her mind either. "Could you look after Whitesock? Give him some apples, he galloped so fast for me." Without waiting for a reply, the woman passed a turn in the spiral stair and vanished form sight.

Venturing outside, the wildmage took Whitesock's reins and shook her head. "She wouldn't tell me why she's in such a hurry either." The girl guided the horse around the back of the tower to a small two-horse stable, complimenting him all the way. Cloud was more than happy to go outside and graze, vacating her stall so the newcomer could be rubbed down. Numair's gelding, Spots, said a friendly 'hello'."

Inside the tower, Onua burst into the mage's fifth floor study. She was met with a dark glare and a scowl, his customary greeting to anyone who interrupted his reading. Numair's scowl slowly changed to a smile as he realized he had an unexpected guest. "Onua!" I didn't know you were visiting," he said, irritation forgotten. The man carefully set aside the yellowed tome he had been reading before unfolding his tall body out of his cushioned chair. Moving to the door, he embraced his old friend warmly. A few weeks ago, she had been sent to Carthak to pick up eight desert ponies. Though they did not have the feisty temperament of her preferred mountain breeds, they would make ideal mounts for the new Rider group that was to be stationed along Tortall's southern coast. The desert ponies would thrive in the heat where their shaggy northern counterparts would have needed frequent rest. "You must have ridden straight from Corus," he realized, calculating the time the trip to Carthak and back must have taken. "Why didn't you tell me you were on your way? I can use a speech spell, you know."

"I was in a hurry," she explained. "I forgot." Her fingers fiddled with her belt pouch as she composed her thoughts. "I brought something back for you. I... I don't mean to dig up the past, but I thought you would want to have it anyway." She opened the small pouch and withdrew an even smaller object, dropping it into his palm.

Dwarfed by his large hand, the black opal glimmered in the light. From its depts shone fires of blue, green, and orange, arranged in the pattern of a peacock feather. He stared at it, speechless.

"It washed up on the Tortallan shore," Onua said when she could bear the silence no longer. "One of the curious ponies almost tried to eat it."

Numair closed his hand around the small oval gemstone and embraced her again. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

When they parted, a tear was rolling down his swarthy cheek and another soon followed. "I'll go talk to Daine for a while, shall I?" she offered politely, patting his arm. The K'mir retreated from the room, closing the door to give him privacy.

He returned to his chair and sat heavily. The mage turned the stone over and over in his hand, occasionally pausing to wipe away a tear or run his thumb over the peacock feather patterned in colourful fires. He hadn't expected to see this opal ever again.

A few hours later, Daine saw Onua off as she began her unhurried return to Corus. Climbing to the top of Numair's tower, she knocked softly and poked her head in the room. Her love looked uncharacteristically sombre as he stared at something he was fiddling with. The man looked up and smiled upon seeing her. "Hello, sweet." He extended his free hand towards her, inviting her to enter the room.

She took his hand with her own, caressing it gently as she walked around the cushioned chair to look over his shoulder. "You're not reading anymore," she noted playfully.

"Onua brought something back from Carthak that distracted me." His hand stilled to show her the opal, barely an inch long.

"Oh glory," the girl whispered, leaning closer to admire the pattern. "It must be the only one like it in the world."

"It is unique," he agreed, "and it belonged to someone I once knew."

She let him pull her into his lap. "Knew?" she asked gently, seeing the lines of sorrow on his handsome features.

"Her name was Rana. Or Isra." His mouth quirked up in a smile. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Either way, names don't really matter."


End file.
